Page 61 of Deliah
Cherry sat up straight. “You have got to be fucking joking.”
“I’m not.”
“What’s he playing at?!”
“I don’t know!” I whisper-yelled. “But the more he doesn’t fuck me, the more I want him. It’s like reverse psychology for my vagina.”
Cherry howled. “You’re actually sick. So what are you gonna do about it?”
I stood up, tightening the robe around my waist with one dramatic tug. “I’m going downstairs.”
She raised a brow. “With that bun and that robe?”
“I’m just being polite,” I said sweetly. “Wouldn’t want to be a rude house guest.”
She cackled. “You are not well.”
“I haven’t slept. I’ve been in a state of permanent foreplay since 9 p.m. last night. I’m feral.”
“I can see that.”
I leaned into the camera. “This man kissed me like he wanted to ruin me… then sent me to bed like a nun. I need answers. Or an orgasm.”
“Preferably both,” she said, sipping her tea.
“Obviously.”
“Anyway,” she added, “we still going out later?”
“Hell yes. I need to dance it out or I’m going to combust.”
“Good. I need some drama. Anyway, go seduce your mysterious boyfriend and report back.”
“He’s not my boyfriend,” I said automatically, then paused. “Yet.”
She smirked. “Go get him, bitch.”
I blew her a kiss and ended the call. Phone down. Robe adjusted. Lip balm on. Time to hunt.
The smell of fresh coffee hit me first. Rich. Bold. Way too calm for how chaotic I felt.
Then I heard it—soft, steady clicks. The low clack of a keyboard behind a partially open door. He was in his office. I padded down the hall, mug in hand. Black. No sugar. I wasn’t sweet today. I wasn’t soft. I was wound up and starving. I didn’t knock. I walked straight in. He looked up slowly, laptop open, a spreadsheet glowing on the screen, a muscle twitching in his jaw like I’d interrupted something important. His gaze moved over me—bare legs, black silk robe tied just tight enough to tease.
Yeah. He noticed.
“Morning,” I said, leaning against the doorway like I didn’t want to climb onto his lap and ruin everything.
“Morning, trouble,” he replied, voice smooth and calm, his attention lingering. “Did you sleep well?”
“I did,” I lied. “Woke up early. Couldn’t stop thinking.”
He closed his laptop without looking away. “About what?”
I walked over, placed my mug on the edge of his desk, and leaned in just enough for him to notice. Then I said it. No games. No flirting. Just hunger. “What have I got to do to get some sex around here?”
The air shifted.
He sat back slowly. Measured. Let his eyes drag over me—face, neck, chest, legs—like he was memorising me for later. “Horny, are we?”
